


i've been lost without a trace

by RaisingCaiin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Awkwardness, Blackmail, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, Kissing, M/M, Multi, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Quenya Names, Threesome - M/M/M, Tingles, Unrequited, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:26:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22662457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/pseuds/RaisingCaiin
Summary: Hello, Fea!! I was your MSV writer this year, and oh man I had a blast writing for the delicious prompts that you gave me.A *short* version was:"Basically, I am starving for Mature (or Explicit) rated Turukáno fic these days. I'd love to see one (or more) elements: political discussions, awkwardness, inexperienced vs. experienced, kissing, tingles, voyeurism."
Relationships: Ecthelion of the Fountain/Glorfindel, Ecthelion of the Fountain/Glorfindel/Turgon of Gondolin, Ecthelion of the Fountain/Turgon of Gondolin
Comments: 24
Kudos: 37
Collections: 2020 My Slashy Valentine





	1. oh can't you see

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sleepless_Malice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/gifts).



> Hello, Fea!! I was your MSV writer this year, and oh man I had a blast writing for the delicious prompts that you gave me. 
> 
> A *short* version was: _"Basically, I am starving for Mature (or Explicit) rated Turukáno fic these days. I'd love to see one (or more) elements: political discussions, awkwardness, inexperienced vs. experienced, kissing, tingles, voyeurism."_

The night is already wearing on when Turukáno finally admits defeat and stands, pushing away the stack of correspondence that he has been staring at, unseeing, ever since he returned to his chambers following the evening meal. The sad heap of papers quivers precariously as it slides away across the polished wood, and something about the soft rustling sound of it sets the last of Turukáno's straining nerves aflame. Before he quite realizes what it is that he is doing, he has raised his arm and swept the lot of it – letters, receipts, contracts, and Valar-only-know-what-else – off his desk entirely.

The papers flutter to the floor like snowflakes, thin edges whispering through the air, but Turukáno can only watch this avalanche in complete apathy for their contents. Somehow he has ended up hunched over the edge of his desk, panting, his fingers clutching at the fine-carved wood with enough strength that his fingertips quickly go numb and bloodless.

This is all quite the mess, he thinks absently. Perhaps he should clean it up now.

Or. Instead, perhaps he could leave this particular mess for tomorrow morning, when he is calmer and in more of a mindset to care about official papers, and tonight he will finally go talk to Laurefindelë, his right-hand man, about cleaning up a very different kind of mess.

And yet, something deep within Turukáno's chest _shrivels_ at the very thought of approaching Laurefindelë. Oh, of course the golden lord had looked concerned earlier when Turukáno had kept him late after the afternoon's council meeting, asking about an opportunity to speak with his most trusted commander longer and in a more private setting; and of course Laurefindelë had promised that Turukáno might come by his chambers to speak with him at any time, every word from his mouth a soothing balm to Turukáno's fraying composure when uttered in that deep, sonorous voice.

But still! It is a _very_ embarrassing matter, and although Turukáno trusts his commander's discretion – and, to be honest, his commander's sometimes rather dense head – completely. . . _well_. There is always the chance that Laurefindelë will recognize the name that Turukáno gives him, or even the chance that Laurefindelë storms out to deal with the wrongdoer himself and then makes a very unflattering connection when he actually sees him.

And Turukáno cannot risk Laurefindelë having this realization because. . . because. . . _ai_.

Because the guardsman Aikándo, who has been taking Turukáno to his bed ever since midsummer and is now holding that as a threat over Turukáno's head, demanding a higher station and more coin lest he tell everyone whose name he has heard Turukáno say in the throes of passion, is tall and handsome and slim of stature for his strength. And when Aikándo wears his long dark hair loose with silver ornaments studded through its tresses, or when he turns in a certain light with his grey eyes shining and frowns as if being restrained from some great purpose, then – 

Well, then a squinting eye in a low light might mistake Aikándo for Ekthëlion.

Ekthëlion, Lord of the Silver Fountain and Warden of the Great Gate – Ekthëlion, who is both another of Turukáno's lords as well as Laurefindelë's own lover.

The mere possibility of Laurefindelë of finding out that the guardsman blackmailing Turukáno looks like Ekthëlion – or the slim but _even worse_ possibility that Aikándo reveals Turukáno's other, darker secret to Laurefindelë when confronted – is enough to set Turukáno's fingers clenching even harder at the edge of his desk. His well-kept nails bite into the wood; he hears a small crack as something splinters beneath the mounting pressure of his grip.

But it has been five nights now since Turukáno last spoke with Aikándo, nodding in silent resignation at the blackguard's smug terms: he has seven nights with which to decide whether he will promote and pay the guardsman off, or whether Aikándo will spread Turukáno's sorry secret all across Gondolin for his people to hear and scoff and judge as they will.

_(More shameful yet, it has been six nights now since Turukáno called Aikándo the wrong name in bed, only to be harshly jolted back to reality when the guardsman's movements above him had slowed and then actually stopped, Turukáno staring up in horror and Aikándo staring down in dawning realization of just why he, of all the guards in all the Tower, had managed to get the king of Gondolin beneath him.)_

At the memory and the reminder, Turukáno grits his teeth. The wood beneath his fingertips splinters a little more.

But the memory of Aikándo's slow, malicious smirk be damned, for Turukáno knows that there is no more time to waste, fiddling away at official papers that he can't even concentrate long enough to read! If he does not make the decision to speak with Laurefindelë and enlist his help – and soon – then soon that damnable Aikándo will surely make the decision for him, and. . . Turukáno cannot _bear_ to think that he might lose two of his greatest friends and confidants within a single night. And all because of a foolish lust, and Turukáno's even more foolish choice to indulge in it – with a treacherous stranger, no less!

The terrible thought that he could drive away both Laurefindelë and Ekthëlion if Aikándo's little story ever came to light strengthens Turukáno's resolve. With a harsh exhale, he unclenches his fingers; with a deep inhale, he slowly straightens his back and steps back from his poor battered desk.

He can do this. He must do this.

He will speak with Laurefindelë _tonight_.

The heels of his boots strike a precise staccato against the cold stone floors of the Tower of the King as Turukáno strides along its halls toward the chambers where Laurefindelë stays whenever he is overnight in Gondolin proper, and something about the rhythmic _click-click-click_ that they sound as he goes raises Turukáno's spirits somewhat. Never mind that it will be a risk to admit even a part of his danger to Laurefindelë; never mind that the resulting loss of his two greatest lords would be the least that Turukáno deserves, if he is exposed by Aikándo after all. Never mind all that, because Turukáno's confidence in his decision to seek out Laurefindelë only grows as he walks towards his commander's chambers. Suddenly he is quite certain that the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower will know just what to do even if Turukáno does not tell him the entire tale, and that the threat of Aikándo will be vanquished well before that scoundrel can put any of his dastardly schemes into action.

Perhaps it is this confidence that is his undoing, Turukáno realizes later. Or perhaps it is simply his pride, or his foolishness, or his excitement that he has found a way to extricate himself without also revealing a hundred things that he would rather not let anyone else know. . .

Well. Whatever his downfall might be attributed to, Turukáno is distracted when he arrives at Laurefindelë's chambers.

The Lord of the House of the Golden Flower is a genial, sociable creature, and when in residence at the Tower, tends to keep his door ajar so that anyone passing by may step inside and speak with him as they please, whether they are king or lord or servant. The only time that Turukáno has ever seen the door to Laurefindelë's chambers here closed is when Ekthëlion has been in residence at the Tower too.

And so, when there is no answer to his knock this evening, Turukáno thinks nothing of nudging open the door to Laurefindelë's rooms and stepping into the small antechamber, where guests are meant to wait until the golden lord comes bounding out from his personal rooms to welcome them with all the friendly enthusiasm of a hunting pup. But tonight, the antechamber is dark with shadows, its only light coming from what must be the hearthfire and candles in the next room, where Laurefindelë keeps sofas, tables, and chairs for his visitors.

And so, Turukáno thinks nothing of leaving the antechamber and stepping into this second room either. And he is just about to call for the golden commander when something stops him short in the very act of drawing breath to do so.

Murmurs. Just beyond his field of vision – in the room that Turukáno _knows_ is Laurefindelë's bedchamber – the golden lord is speaking quietly with someone, and with a shiver down his spine Turukáno realizes that he would recognize that second voice, a pleasant silver baritone, _anywhere_.

 _Ekthëlion_.

Turukáno can almost feel his spirit lifting from his body with the sudden shock and a growing dread. What is Ekthëlion doing here, in Laurefindelë's chambers, on the night of a meeting with the eastern wards? His own command is to the north, and by Turukáno's reckoning, the Lord of the Silver Fountain is meant to be at his own residence for another seven nights. Not here, speaking with Laurefindelë in hushed tones just beyond the half-closed bedroom door, and not on this, the very night when Turukáno _must_ speak with Laurefindelë alone!

But, of course, the Lord of the Silver Fountain is quite unaware of the havoc that his presence and his voice are wreaking upon Turukáno's mind. In the room beyond he continues to speak, his rich voice soft but authoritative, and now that Turukáno's attention has been snapped out of its distracted reverie, he can hear Ekthëlion's words to Laurefindelë quite clearly, despite the bedchamber door ajar between them.

"You will never guess the rumor that I heard today," Turukáno hears Ekthëlion say languidly. There is a rustle of cloth, as if he has sat upon or reclined against some piece of Laurefindelë's furnishings, and there is a soft sound from Laurefindelë in answer before the golden lord actually speaks.

"And what rumor is that?" Turukáno hears Laurefindelë ask in response, but oh how his voice has changed from the tone and the timber that Turukáno had heard just earlier this afternoon! It has grown deeper, and lower, and is laced with a power, a hunger, that even his own soldiers must rarely ever hear; the floor of his bedchamber creaks beneath his steps as he crosses the room, presumably to follow Ekthëlion. His shadow steals across the half-square of light that falls from the bedchamber into the main room where the startled Turukáno stands, its dark head brushing the very tips of Turukáno's boots in a way that makes him shiver again, harder than before.

"A most interesting rumor, and one that I think you'll find of interest if it will be possible to keep your head together for a few moments longer," Turukáno hears Ekthëlion promise, amusement coloring his voice as Laurefindelë's shadow recedes from the living room once more – he has crossed before the door and gone to stand by his fellow lord and lover, perhaps. "Think you can do that, 'Fin?"

"You know I will," Laurefindelë says, his voice quieter yet. There is another sound that Turukáno cannot quite identify – fabric of some kind being replaced or removed – before Laurefindelë continues, sounding almost hoarse: "You know I will do anything for you."

Turukáno's feet feel as though they have been driven to the spot. His head whirls, and his face is hotter than it would be if he had sat by the fire and simply waited for Laurefindelë to step from his room. Call him foolish, perhaps, but Turukáno has held out a dwindling hope that he had not stumbled upon a, erm, _private_ moment, and that hope is being demolished by the second with every word and every sound he now overhears. Worse still, his entire body feels so hot and heavy that Turukáno is not sure he could leave Laurefindelë's suite of chambers even if he tried. He is trapped here, _listening_ with a keen and shivering anticipation, to whatever his lords might get up to in the room beyond.

"Good," he hears Ekthëlion continue, briskly, and there is a small sound of skin against skin, as if Ekthëlion has gently slapped Laurefindelë's hands away. "So. There seems to be a guardsman here in the Tower who is balking his next assignment, though he is a hand of Duilin's regiment and subject to the same rotations as the rest of the House of the Swallow. You know that my own guard will be here in some days' time to serve our rotation at the Tower, but I think-"

Ekthëlion is not able to even finish this sentence before Laurefindelë interrupts him, a distinct rasp in his voice. "Advise Duilin to discipline him, reassign him, and forget about him – there, it is handled. Now come here – stars, I want to fuck you."

The casual vulgarity at the end of this statement, and the raw need in Laurefindelë's voice as he admits his desire, leave Turukáno breathless. His skin prickles beneath his fine clothes; his light circlet feels molten upon his brow. Pressure builds and swells, lower down his body.

And Turukáno would not have thought that Ekthëlion could surpass such heated need, but-

The Lord of the Silver Fountain laughs as crystal-clear as the waters for which he is named. "If you can manage to put me on my back tonight, then you are welcome to me," Ekthëlion says with amusement, a teasing note entering his voice before he crows: "Hah! Getting slow in your old age, aren't you?" A muted thump seems to suggest that Laurefindelë has made a grab for him and missed.

The images suggested by Ekthëlion's taunts shimmer before Turukáno's glazed eyes. Laurefindelë is the taller and the broader of the two lords, by half a head in one direction and a quarter-shoulder in the other, while Ekthëlion is slimmer, with a sleek and rangy beauty to the planes of his face and hands. But they are both warriors, fierce in battle and commanding upon the field, and if it truly came to a contest of strength between them. . .

 _Hhhhhh_. A shiver wracks Turukáno from head to toe.

Would Laurefindelë truly try to wrestle Ekthëlion into submission? Would he try to throw the slightly shorter lord or pin him, crowding Ekthëlion against the bed or the wall? Would he use his great arms to hold Ekthëlion's wrists above his head, showering his lover's face and hair with triumphant kisses while he waited for Ekthëlion to tire of struggling and laughing against him? Would Ekthëlion be able to buck him off, slip from beneath him, and rush his back to turn the tables? Would Laurefindelë be able to recapture his prize, and hold him down this time?

The living chamber where Turukáno is standing suddenly feels much warmer than it had when he first entered it. He lifts a slightly trembling hand to his brow and shakily wipes away some of the moisture that has somehow gathered there.

In his new distraction, he has somehow missed the continuation of that conversation. Ekthëlion is speaking again, and from his panting quiet, Laurefindelë seems like he is _trying_ to be good and listen.

"There is more to it, though. The fellow – Aikándo, as his name seems to be – was heard bragging to his peers that he had happened upon some grand opportunity for a rise in station or fortune, but he would not say what this great luck that had befallen him was."

The moment he hears his perfidious former lover's name, spoken here of all places, the blood roars in Turukáno's ears and he quite suddenly feels faint. Aikándo, it seems, could not even wait for the passage of those seven days that he had promised Turukáno before he began bragging about his spoils, and now, if he has gotten a taste of the notoriety his story could bring him, there is the chance that he will not stop even if Turukáno does grant him a promotion and coin. . .

This new agony nearly causes Turukáno to miss it when Ekthëlion continues. "When I inquired of Duilin, though, they said that the fellow is not particularly able and he is not due for a promotion, so they were at as much of a loss what to make this as I am. They said they would interrogate him, and I promised I would speak with you."

Laurefindelë grunts, and the sound is displeased. "Will this tale take much longer?" he demands, his voice somewhat strained. "I have not seen you in a fortnight, Ekthëlion, and I _want_ you."

This declaration, uttered with as much quiet emotion as raw need, puts an utterly foolish thought in Turukáno's head. Why – why is he still standing here, _imagining_ what Laurefindelë must look like in the throes of such desire, when he could just take a few steps closer to the door and see it for himself instead?

 _Or you could leave now and grant them their peace and privacy_ , another part of him admonishes quietly, but Turukáno tamps down on it with a fierce eagerness. After all, this story about Aikándo, whatever it might turn out to be, concerns him too, doesn't it? And Laurefindelë _had_ said that Turukáno was welcome in his chambers at any point tonight, hadn't he? That's the only reason why he is still here, Turukáno tells himself hurriedly.

 _He didn't mean for you to see this, though!_ that inner conscience protests, but it is too little, too late. Part in desperation for the rest of the story about Aikándo, but more out of a shameful and burning desire to actually see more of Laurefindelë and Ekthëlion than his imagination could do justice to them, Turukáno creeps toward the half-closed door, keeping to the shadows and the wall until he is standing before not the aperture itself, but instead, the tiny opening between the door hinges.

This will be enough, he tells himself, attempting to soothe his conscience. Surely he won't be able to see everything from such a small vantage point, and what little he will be able to see cannot be that revealing!

But the cracks between the hinges are wider than he expected, and when he leans forward far enough to make out the room beyond, Turukáno sees Ekthëlion leaning against the foot of Laurefindelë's bed, still fully dressed from the day's ride, and Laurefindelë across from him, cloak gone and shirt with its top laces undone, watching his lover's every move with the keenest interest.

"It _has_ been a fortnight, hasn't it," Ekthëlion is in the act of musing quietly, turning slightly toward Laurefindelë as he thinks this claim over. "Still,” he murmurs: “-by the stars, 'Fin, you act as though you have been starved without me."

"I have," Laurefindelë admits, leaning forward as if irresistibly drawn across the space between them. "Just tell the rest of your story, and quick, before I cannot bear to be so far from you any longer."

Ekthëlion graces him with a smile that, for all its softness, pains something in Turukáno's chest to see. "Happily, there is no more to tell - or if there is, then I do not know it. Now. Should I not be on my way? I seem to recall you said that Turukáno might come to speak with you tonight.”

Hearing his own name so soon after Aikándo’s is a further shock to Turukáno’s senses, and he is overcome by a hot wave of shame and, quick on its heels, the icy touch of terror. So far it seems that neither Ekthëlion nor Duilin have uncovered much of his sad plight, but the fact that Aikándo is already boasting of unnamed exploits is more than enough to plague Turukáno.

Within the room beyond, though, Laurefindelë does not seem plagued by any doubts whatsoever. With a soft growl, he pushes off the edge of his own bed and stalks toward Ekthëlion as the Lord of the Silver Fountain simply watches with fond amusement.

“If he comes tonight, he will find that I have closed my door,” Laurefindelë promises Ekthëlion quietly, already beginning an impatient assault on his riding clothes. Ekthëlion’s cloak falls to the floor to pool at his heels, and Laurefindelë immediately sets to work on the laces of his shirt. “I doubt there is anything he needs so desperately that he will rouse me from my bed when I have only just regained you.”

“Oh?” Ekthëlion asks mildly, doing nothing yet to help his lover but simply petting through his flowing mane of golden hair. “And does the _king_ realize this?”

The Lord of the Silver Fountain is smiling slightly as he asks, but there is something odd about his voice: it takes Turukáno a moment to realize that this is because Ekthëlion seems to be pitching it almost as if he is not speaking to Laurefindelë at all. With a sinking feeling, Turukáno is abruptly reminded that sight works both ways, and just as he can see his lords through the well-lit crack between the hinges of the door, so -

So it is possible that his lords could also see him as well.

No sooner does he have this epiphany, then Ekthëlion has raised his head from Laurefindelë’s bowed one and is meeting Turukáno’s gaze head-on.

A heartbeat passes this way, then two. Three.

And then Ekthëlion _smiles_ \- slow, and languid, and heated, and Turukáno, shuddering, lets out a breath that he had not even realized that he was holding.

Ekthëlion blinks, as slow and easy as he had smiled, and then looks away from the crack in the door and back to Laurefindelë as if nothing untoward has happened at all.

“Never mind the king, I suppose,” he whispers, his hand resuming its devastating path through his lover’s flowing hair. “Surely he would know where and when he is welcome, eh?” Turukáno is _staggered_. Is this – permission, then? And if so, permission for what – to stay? To watch? He is cannot be sure, but it most certainly is not a condemnation, and Ekthëlion is hardly throwing a fit or even revealing Turukáno’s presence to Laurefindelë as he turns his attentions back to his lover. Turukáno does not know which of the Valar is smiling upon him enough to have granted him this reprieve - actually no, scratch that, he does not wish to think of the gods watching him watching this as well, his present sins are already bad enough! – but he finds that he cannot look away. . . 

The slight movement of Ekthëlion’s head and the momentary change in his tone seem to have gone right over Laurefindelë’s head – a fortnight without Ekthëlion’s presence seems to have served the usually-vigilant golden lord quite ill indeed. “The king will be well,” Laurefindelë rasps, finally losing his patience with the complicated laces enough to simply tear them apart, and Ekthëlion shakes with silent, ill-repressed laughter, patting his shoulder with a commiseration that hardly matches the ruin of his shirt.

“I am sure the king is well indeed,” he murmurs. “Now. What did you have in mind, you rascal?”

“I want to-” Laurefindelë starts, but his lover cuts him off with a business-like wave.

“Yes, yes, you want to fuck me – I remember as much.” He does not so much as glance toward Turukáno as he says any of this, but the shivering king gets the distinct impression that this is all being spelled out for his benefit. “I suppose I should have put the question differently,” Ekthëlion continues. “Do you want me badly enough to work for it?”

Laurefindelë’s head rears up, and he growls his affirmative so quickly that it sets Ekthëlion laughing again. “Of course you do, what a silly question to ask a valiant creature such as yourself,” he corrects himself, the skin about his eyes crinkling as he smiles. “I suppose you shall simply have to do your best then, eh?”

With another rough noise, the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower pushes his lover over to sprawl across his bed, both their remaining clothes all askew now, and this roughness seems to amuse the Lord of the Silver Fountain even more. He immediately shoves at Laurefindelë’s chest and moves to sit up, only for Laurefindelë to pounce and attempt to wrestle him back down, and for a few glorious but all too fleeting moments, Turukáno is treated to the sight of his two closest lords tussling for dominance atop Laurefindelë's bed.

Corded muscles flex, skin gleams, as they test their strength against one another, Laurefindelë with a wordless rumble of exasperation and Ekthëlion with a sound of pure delight. No sooner has Laurefindelë managed to pin Ekthëlion's wrists then Ekthëlion knees him in the gut, and Laurefindelë's grip weakens enough for Ekthëlion to wriggle loose; Laurefindelë immediately abandons his earlier strategy, instead electing to collapse across his lover and pin Ekthëlion with his entire body, rutting down against him as he does.

For a moment, Turukáno's view of Ekthëlion is eclipsed entirely by the golden lord atop him, although he can still hear Ekthëlion's slightly winded laughter, now wheezing from the unexpected weight. Though pinned, Ekthëlion continues to struggle on valiantly; Turukáno can see him attempt a kick, then a roll, on his lover, but Laurefindelë merely waits him out, confident in his own strength and quite obviously enjoying the friction that Ekthëlion is creating by writhing beneath him. Soon enough, he is countering Ekthëlion’s efforts by pinning him down further - his wrists to the sheets when Ekthëlion grabs for his shoulders, his legs nudged apart when he tries for a kick.

“Yield,” Laurefindelë demands, ducking down toward his lover and, from what Turukáno can hear of it, pressing a heated kiss to Ekthëlion’s lips. 

The fact that this is a command, not a question, goes straight to Turukáno’s core. 

“And if I do not?” Ekthëlion asks cheerfully. “Or the king chooses this moment to call for you? What then, lover, eh?”

Turukáno actually sees Laurefindelë go stock still for a moment, as if half-expecting a visitor now that Ekthëlion has reminded him of the possibility; then a heartbeat later, he relaxes his vigilance, ducking down to smother Ekthëlion with another kiss that the Lord of the Silver Fountain returns, chuckling.

“He will not,” Laurefindelë states, with such assurance in his voice that the words leave Turukáno weak in the knees, clutching at the doorframe as he struggles to stay upright. “And you _will_.”

Oh. _Oh._ Well. _That_ leaves no room for doubt in Turukáno’s mind about Laurefindelë’s intentions for his lover, and Ekthëlion seems to think the same, going by the way he wrestles a hand free from Laurefindelë’s hold and brings it up to fist in his lover’s golden hair, dragging Laurefindelë back down to his level for another searing kiss.

“This time, then,” Turukáno can just barely hear Ekthëlion pant against Laurefindelë’s mouth when the two lords finally separate for air. “This time I am yours, ‘Fin, but the next – do not think I will go so easy on you. This was for the king, lest he come in search of his right hand.”

Ekthëlion’s naming of him, spoken as it is in the very throes of his arousal, leaves Turukáno sinking his teeth into his hand, lest the wounded noise that is rising from his throat escape him and alert Laurefindelë to his presence too. The sharp sting of pain is barely enough to ground him, but somehow Turukáno manages to remain upright and quiet in the face of Ekthëlion bringing him back, again and again, into such an intimate moment – all the while _knowing_ that Turukáno will hear him, and certain that he can do nothing about it.

In the room beyond, Ekthëlion shoves against Laurefindelë’s chest again, and this time, believing his victory for the night assured, Laurefindelë lets him up. With further space between their bodies again, the lovers’ mutual arousal is painfully clear to Turukáno, and he is forced to drop one hand from the doorframe he has been gripping and grind its heel against his own throbbing interest, struggling to relieve some of the pressure mounting ever higher there. Ekthëlion’s knowledge of his presence, and his continued references to him, are doing strange things to Turukáno’s state of mind - he cannot quite keep himself from imagining how it would feel to be even closer to this scene than he already is. To be inside that room, instead of beyond it looking in. To be trapped between those hardened bodies, instead of watching them with an interest so strong he can almost _taste_ it.

. . . Or even to be the prize that they were wrestling for, instead of them striving only for and against one another.

Turukáno cannot quite suppress another shiver. He and Aikándo had never been like this, could never have been like this. They had certainly never teased, or spoken, or kissed – this at least, Turukáno can be proud to say that he resisted.

The sex had been one thing, but the semblance of a mutual interest that went beyond the other man’s body? It would have been too much for Turukáno to bear, even in pretending. Aikándo’s harsh crow would never compare to Ekthëlion’s quicksilver laughter or Laurefindelë’s heady rumble, and Aikándo’s greed certainly could not stand against either Ekthëlion’s constancy or Laurefindelë’s steadfast loyalty.

Within the bedchamber beyond Ekthëlion is speaking again, laughing as Laurefindelë’s fumbled touches make it obvious that the golden lord is quite ready for something more than kisses, but quite suddenly, the thrill and even the heat of seeing them together is fading from Turukáno’s bones, leaving a cold and empty numbness in their wake. A moment ago, he had been titillated by the glimpses of their bodies and their strength, but now he is also struck by the ease with which they come together: Laurefindelë’s need is as driven as much by Ekthëlion’s spirits as it is by the fairness of his form, and Ekthëlion’s own regard for his lover stems as much from Laurefindelë’s goodness as it does from his body.

Quite abruptly, the whole picture is more than he can take anymore and Turukáno, king of Gondolin and brother of the High King of the Noldor himself, turns tail and flees.

There is no sign of pursuit from behind him, but then, why would there be?

Ekthëlion and Laurefindelë already have each other, do they not?


	2. how my poor heart aches

Even though he has restored them to some semblance of order upon his desk, the papers that Turukáno had scattered the night before now confront him in silent accusation the next morning. He sighs quietly as he regards them, exhaustion coloring the sound even to his own ears. And although he is not usually given to allegories, this one is so readily available that Turukáno could not overlook it even if he tried, for - 

These papers are just one example of the many, many things that he has not addressed as he should have; just another instance of the many things that he has almost spoiled, or wrecked, in his desire to do only what he himself pleases, without regard for what should actually be done to benefit others.

Grim thoughts, yes, but – altogether fitting, Turukáno thinks. With a longer, louder sigh than before, he relents enough to slump forward over his desk, burying his face in his hands with a groan as he finally, finally turns his mind to the true issue at hand.

In the soft, cold light of a new winter’s day, his actions of the night before have become even more unconscionable.

It is bad enough that he pursued Aikándo because the guardsman bears a passing resemblance to Ekthëlion. And, to Turukáno's mind, the wrong was not to Aikándo himself, who knew that the affair was a passing fancy to his sometime partner even if he didn't know precisely _how_ until Turukáno himself upset that balance. No, the initial wrong was to Ekthëlion, who had not even known of Turukáno's desire for him.

But. As bad as that had been, Turukáno thinks as his head slumps forward from his hands onto the surface of the desk itself, even that was nothing compared to him actually _intruding_ upon Laurefindelë and Ekthëlion. And then _staying_ , imagining himself involved in the intimate moment he was witnessing, as if he had any right at all to be there!

And no, Turukáno thinks glumly, thumping his head gently upon his desk, Ekthëlion spotting him and the dark-haired lord's apparent ease with being watched did not make Turukáno's own actions any less shameful.

His head hurt both inside and out now. This day could not get any worse.

There is the sound of a rap against the doorframe. "My king?" comes Laurefindelë's voice, tinged with concern.

. . . _ai_. No, Turukáno decides, this day can always get worse.

Blearily, he raises his head and manages the semblance of a civil nod to his right-hand man. "Good morning, Laurefindelë."

He immediately worries that this greeting sounds stilted, over-formal. Will Laurefindelë guess that something is wrong? Will Laurefindelë guess _what_ is wrong?

Before he can work himself into a frenzy over this, though, the golden-haired lord is returning his greeting warmly and sweeping forward into the room that Turukáno uses as his private office. He frowns with worry upon seeing the state of Turukáno's desk, and clicks his tongue in absent admonishment as he stoops down to pick something up off the floor before it. Before Turukáno can ask, though, Laurefindelë is rising once more, and he sets another scrap of paper – this one an official letter, by the looks of it – atop the haphazard stack before Turukáno's elbows.

Once the letter has been settled to Laurefindelë's satisfaction, he takes a hesitant seat in one of the two great, padded chairs that face Turukáno's desk. "If you have the time this morning, Turukáno, I have come to make an apology," he says meekly.

. . . What. This is so far from anything that Turukáno could have possibly expected from his first commander that he is not quite sure how to even respond. 

" _What_?" he echoes his own thoughts, bewildered.

Laurefindelë – _fidgets_ , there is no other word for it, broad hands twisting against one another in his lap. He is dressed for the day already, Turukáno notes absently: the colors of his House, soft cream and burnished gold and lush russet, make for an exquisite contrast against the crimson cushions of the chair he has seated himself in. The fine details of things are standing out to Turukáno this morning – probably, he decides, because he really does not want to think of the larger picture today.

"I am sorry to have troubled you, last night," Laurefindelë begins quietly, and Turukáno nearly swoons away then and there before the golden lord continues: "You had mentioned that you wished to speak with me, but if you came by my chambers then you must have seen that my door was closed. Ekthëlion has returned, so I – I welcomed him to the Tower, that is all," Laurefindelë finishes, the words trailing off here.

Oh. He is not talking about Turukáno seeing them, then. Ekthëlion must have held his peace rather than inform his lover of their unexpected guest last night, so this morning Laurefindelë simply thinks that he inconvenienced Turukáno by prioritizing his lover over the concerns of his king.

But something in the golden lord's voice makes Turukáno look up at his right hand sharply, only to see that Laurefindelë now looks completely shamefaced. Too late Turukáno realizes that the other elf must think his continued silence is Turukáno rejecting this apology.

As if he could, when truly it is Turukáno who should be apologizing to Laurefindelë! If only he knew where to start. . . 

"Either way," Laurefindelë continues hastily. "If the matter still concerns you, I have asked for breakfast to be brought here, to your quarters, and I thought that you might tell me now how I may be of service to you."

A heartbeat passes before Turukáno realizes that the tiny wounded sound hanging in the air between them actually came from Turukáno himself.

. . . Damn Laurefindelë and his easy way of promising things as _service_! He even has the gall to now stand, and look _concerned_ again, as if it were not due to him that such a truly embarrassing noise had escaped Turukáno in the first place!

"Are you well, my king?" he asks, all honest solicitousness, and Turukáno can only nod, wave him away, before Laurefindelë actually comes around the desk and tries to _lift_ him or some such absolute ~~wonderful~~ nonsense.

"Quite all right," he manages to get out, suddenly quite hideously aware that he is still in his rumpled sleeping robes from the night before while Laurefindelë is fully dressed. And although Laurefindelë looks mildly skeptical at this, blessedly, he returns to his place on the other side of the desk.

And this is when Turukáno's morning grows exponentially more complicated.

"My lord Turukáno, Laurefindelë," _Ekthëlion_ says in greeting as he enters the room, bearing a platter adorned with fresh fruit, warm bread, sliced meats, and more. "I saw your staff arriving with food and promised that I would bear it to you so that they need not interrupt your conference this morning." With that the Lord of the Silver Fountain strides across the room with as much confidence as if this were his own office, and he is so close to Turukáno when he sets the platter down atop his desk that Turukáno's straining mind insists it can _smell_ him, a heady earth-after-rain that is unique to the dark-haired lord alone. . .

But that is beside the point, and there is much else that Turukáno could focus on instead, such as - if Laurefindelë looks a splendid picture in the colors of his House, then the same is also true of Ekthëlion, draped as he is in the sharp shining silver, deep sapphire blue, and fresh forest green that mark him the head of the House of the Silver Fountain. And not only this, but also with his hair plaited through with the small silver ornaments that so many try to imitate but none can ever duplicate! Where Laurefindelë glows with warmth, Ekthëlion shimmers with a cool brilliance, and seeing them side by side as Ekthëlion walks back around the desk to join his lover, greeting him with a chaste kiss that Laurefindelë happily returns, reminds Turukáno all over again how very, very poor an imitation Aikándo was.

Oh. _Aikándo_.

All in a terrible rush, Turukáno is reminded once again of what his treacherous former lover will bring down upon him tomorrow, and, to his own dull surprise, he finds that actually he hardly cares any longer.

"I will leave you two to your conference then," Ekthëlion is just saying, snagging a piece of bread from the spread of breakfast choices as he steps away from Laurefindelë. "Unless my king wishes me to stay as well?" he adds softly, looking to Turukáno without a shred of judgment or pressure in either his voice or his gaze, and this consideration more than anything is what decides Turukáno.

He may deserve what is coming to him, but the two standing before him and asking what they can do to ease his burdens most certainly do not. It is the very least that he can do, Turukáno thinks dully, to warn them of the storm that he has brought down upon his own head.

"I have made a mistake," he tells his two closest lords softly. And then, at a soft noise of protest from Laurefindelë and an encouraging nod from Ekthëlion, he tells them about Aikándo.

Not everything, of course. Not the part where his eye was first drawn to the guardsman because the other elf's lithe form and dark hair could be taken for Ekthëlion's, and not the part where he had moaned a much-desired name while writhing beneath Aikándo. But enough that Laurefindelë's right hand falls to the hilt of his sword and he clutches at the weapon tightly, furious upon learning that his king is being threatened by the exposure of his private life; enough that Ekthëlion also looks pensive, and taps at his own pommel, as if drawing connections between what he is hearing now and something that perhaps he already knew before coming here this morning. 

"This is connected, then, to those rumors that you told me of last night," Laurefindelë tells Ekthëlion when Turukáno is done. His anger is palpable in his voice. "This must be what the wretch was boasting about when you heard the whispers from Duilin. This bastard must be found and sanctioned, immediately!"

Ekthëlion, though, has not looked away from Turukáno himself, and he still looks thoughtful in a way that Turukáno might be more nervous about if he did not suddenly feel so very, very tired. "And this is all that concerns you, my king?" the dark-haired lord asks, quietly. The weight of his regard is heavy upon Turukáno's shoulders, but that, Turukáno thinks dully, is only fair turnabout for his own gaze hot and heavy upon Ekthëlion last night.

"It sounds like _more_ than enough to be concerned about!" Laurefindelë cries, frustrated, but Ekthëlion holds up a single finger to quiet his lover and a somewhat irritated Laurefindelë finally subsides when Turukáno says nothing to contradict Ekthëlion either.

"I simply ask, my king, because I visited the barracks earlier and I was pointed toward the fellow that you name," Ekthëlion continues, his voice still quiet enough that Laurefindelë is forced to listen too. "He was plaiting his hair for the day."

And with this, Ekthëlion needs say no more: Turukáno _knows_ that the dark-haired lord _knows_. Aikándo has taken to wearing silver ornaments in his hair more often now just to unnerve Turukáno, and of course Ekthëlion would notice this imitation of the fashion that he himself is famous for.

Turukáno swallows, heavily, and nods once at Ekthëlion, more heavily still. So this is it, then – he has been caught in his vices, and he must lose Laurefindelë and Ekthëlion both, after all.

Laurefindelë clears his throat with a tentative sound. "I know you are both a good deal quicker than I am," he begins, apologetically. "So – what is so important about this fellow's hair?"

"He wears it plaited with silver, which means that I let him fuck me because he looked a bit like Ekthëlion, and now he wants money and a bigger helmet or he'll tell everyone that I said _your_ name when he was balls-deep in me," Turukáno tells his right hand, blunt out of pure exhaustion. Both Laurefindelë and Ekthëlion are staring at him now, even Ekthëlion having been unable to ferret out that last bit, and Turukáno plows on, determined to get this out before he must throw himself from a ledge or something similarly conclusive. "But there is no one else in Gondolin who looks even passably like you, Laurë, so I had to be content with one lookalike alone, and that is probably for the best given all that this choice has landed me in."

Silence reigns complete for one heartbeat, then two. Three. Both of his closest lords are surely still gaping at Turukáno, but he drops his gaze because he cannot meet their stares of shock.

And then.

A tiny, muffled laugh escapes Ekthëlion. Turukáno can feel his own eyes go wide at the sound – surely this must be the beginning of the end – and he rises from his desk, with no other thought in his mind other than to _get away get away, quick as he can,_ but. As Turukáno passes him, Laurefindelë snatches his arm and stops him, and the golden-haired lord rounds on Ekthëlion in the same movement, his face still working through a rainbow of emotions but still quite certain that _laughter_ is _not_ the proper response here.

"Everyone has their way of dealing with shock, love, but I think-" he begins cautiously, as delicate with his words as if he were trying not to crush flowers while wading through a garden, but Ekthëlion waves him off and walks right toward Turukáno, who is struggling quite ineffectually to free himself from Laurefindelë's strong grip.

"I would not have said no, Turukáno," he murmurs, cutting right to the heart of the matter. "I do not think that either of us would have."

Turukáno's head spins, giving in to a whirlwind of doubt because – first of all, _what_ did Ekthëlion just say, and second, _what_ is Ekthëlion doing by leaning down toward him, and-

Long before he can reach any more questions, Ekthëlion kisses him.

Even if he is shorter than Laurefindelë, Ekthëlion is still taller than Turukáno, and when the dark-haired lord is kissing him then Turukáno can feel every _hand_ of that difference between them. Ekthëlion's regal face fills every corner of his vision, and yet it is his mouth that truly demands Turukáno's attention, for it is every bit as considerate yet commanding as the lord himself, demanding but repaying every scrap of Turukáno's attention. Turukáno's eyes flutter closed beneath the unexpected onslaught, and Ekthëlion huffs with satisfaction against his lips before tucking a finger beneath Turukáno's chin and tilting his entire head up for another kiss, which of course Turukáno is powerless to resist.

Like this, Turukáno's throat is bared to his lords, and against his skin Ekthëlion rumbles with enjoyment like he had planned as much. Turukáno's his pulse _races_ at the very thought of it.

"Ekthëlion?" Laurefindelë asks, somewhere in the background, but to Turukáno's distant surprise the golden lord does not sound angered, or even surprised, that his lover is kissing another man. "I thought you said we would ask him first?"

Ekthëlion draws back just far enough to answer him, and an embarrassing whimper escapes Turukáno as he chases that completely unexpected first contact, eyes still closed. "Laurë," Ekthëlion retorts, amused: "he let himself be fucked by a man who he chose purely because that man resembled me. Between that, and now this – look at him, Laurë, _look_ at him – that seems very much like an answer to me, eh?" 

"Oh," Laurefindelë breathes, and _stars_ but he is suddenly standing so much closer to both of them than he had been just a heartbeat before. "Well. When you put it that way-"

"Laurë," Ekthëlion interrupts.

"Mmm?"

"Hush. And pull his robe off for me, eh?"

Laurefindelë rumbles in wordless agreement, and Turukáno shivers as he realizes that the golden lord's voice is dipping into that same deep timber that Turukáno had overheard from him when he was watching them last night. And then even these thoughts are quite driven from his head as Laurefindelë tugs one sleeve of his thin sleep robe down over his shoulder; the silky cloth ghosts across his skin, followed only a heartbeat later by the equally soft press of Laurefindelë's lips. Turukáno arches back into that impossibly good touch with a wordless cry of his own, accidentally pulling away from Ekthëlion before him in the process.

Laurefindelë keeps working his way down Turukáno's arm, completely unperturbed by the sudden wriggling, but when Turukáno opens his eyes to look for Ekthëlion, he finds that the Lord of the Silver Fountain is watching them both with undisguised lust shining in his own eyes.

"It was your choice, of course, and I do not begrudge you that," he says quietly, and it takes Turukáno a moment to realize that Ekthëlion is speaking to _him._ "But – and you could not have known this yet, I suppose – this Aikándo fellow could not match _me_."

He speaks so casually, conversationally, that Turukáno could _almost_ tune him out and focus on the way that he is being methodically undressed and hotly kissed across every breadth of skin by an increasingly involved Laurefindelë, whose generous interest Turukáno can feel hard against the small of his back - but only _almost_. Meanwhile, Ekthëlion's easy tone as he continues belies the actual words that he is saying.

"I mean, Laurefindelë could tell you something of my proclivities," he continues calmly, as if his every word is not setting fire to Turgon's nerves in the best way possible. "He could tell you that I will not go to my back or take to my knees unless I am fought there; he could also tell you that I like my pleasure with teeth in it, and that I will always tell my lover – or lovers – precisely what I think and like and want of them."

A fine-boned thumb pressed to Turukáno's bottom lip, pulling his mouth slightly open, just punctuates the words that are slowly turning his mind inside out. "Would your Aikándo be able to say the same?" Ekthëlion wonders absently, turning Turukáno's head this way and then that as if admiring his mouth and wondering what it might look like if put to use elsewhere.

 _No,_ Turukáno would like to tell him. _No, he would not, and even if he did, he was never the one I desired in the first place!_ But none of this makes it past his lips, only a maon of shocking need as, behind him, Laurefindelë finally pulls his robe free from both his shoulders and casts it away from them; then reaches a long, well-muscled arm about Turukáno's hips to cup him in a warm, broad hand with an assessing murmur.

At Turukáno's gasp of surprise at the touch, Ekthëlion finally looks away from his mouth and snorts at Laurefindelë. "You could not wait even another moment, could you. Never mind. Bed, I think?"

Turukáno cannot nod fast enough or hard enough in answer, and Ekthëlion smirks at him before nodding to the golden-haired lord. "Laurë, if you would?"

Without any further ado – oh _stars –_ with one arm beneath Turukáno's back and the other beneath his knees, Laurefindelë is lifting him as though he weighs nothing at all, carrying him across the study and into his bedchamber before depositing him easily upon the bed, where both Ecthelion and Laurefindelë regard him with an intense interest that reminds Turukáno again how –

He is quite naked, splayed atop his own bed without a stitch to conceal his eagerness. Meanwhile, both Ekthëlion and Laurefindelë retain all the colors of their Houses, from circlets to tunics to swords and boots. . .

Ekthëlion at least does not keep him waiting long, but snaps his fingers briskly as if remembering something and sending Laurefindelë back to the other room to fulfill some request that Turukáno cannot quite overhear. Meanwhile, Ekthëlion drifts closer to the bed and surveys him, trailing long fingers up and down Turukáno's exposed leg with languid movements.

"What do you want, my king?" he murmurs. "I have said nothing yet to Laurefindelë of you visiting us last night, and before now I had only the vaguest suspicion of why you might have chosen that particular guardsman. But still, that is already more pieces to a puzzle than I normally like, so – I would rather hear it from you." Throughout this entire speech, Ekthëlion's fingers never stop in their torturously light movement, and Turukáno can feel his frame reaching its pitch beneath the touch.

"I want you," he whispers, past the point of caring whether it sounds needy or wrong or selfish of him to ask this thing that he has wanted for so many years now. "I want both of you, Ekthëlion, and I never thought – I never thought that I could have you."

Ekthëlion clicks his tongue, fingers never stilling, but before he makes his answer Laurefindelë returns, grinning in triumph, with a vial dangling from playful fingertips. "Well?" the golden lord asks them both, grinning wider still to see how much closer Ekthëlion now stands to the bed.

Ekthëlion splays a proprietary hand warm and firm across Turukáno's chest, as if to wipe out any touch that Aikándo had lain upon him with his own instead. The possessiveness of it sends a giddy warmth rippling through Turukáno. Then: "If I take him, and you take me, then he will have us both," Ekthëlion tells Laurefindelë calmly, and the warmth that has overtaken Turukáno's frame becomes something far more fiery-hot altogether.

" _Yes_ ," he breathes, and from Laurefindelë's fierce nod, they are both in complete agreement that Ekthëlion is the planner here. 

And Ekthëlion, Turukáno thinks distantly as the world seems to rearrange itself around them, does not disappoint. He directs Turukáno to his hands and knees so that Laurefindelë can kneel behind him and slowly work him open; between the cool oil, the golden lord's broad fingers, and the soft sensation of his clothes against Turukáno's oversensitive skin, Turukáno almost loses himself more than once, and more than once only Ekthëlion's fingers tightening about him prevents such a premature end. Meanwhile, Ekthëlion disrobes himself slowly, leisurely, luxuriously, telling them both more than once how pretty a picture they paint for him, and how greatly he anticipates discovering the way Turukáno's body will take him, how fast and how far Laurefindelë will take them both over that edge. 

By the time that Ekthëlion has stripped himself, wandered over to kiss Laurefindelë with messy attention to detail, and pronounced Turukáno ready, Turukáno's limbs are shaking so with anticipation and stimulation that he can barely hold himself as Ekthëlion had first positioned him. And distantly, somewhere behind himself, Turukáno can also hear Laurefindelë's voice, rough with desire, asking his lover if he will not wait to be prepared and Ekthëlion's laughter in response as he asks whether Laurefindelë remembers how very open he had fucked Ekthëlion last night.

"Just give me a little oil, and then one – _ohhhh_ , like that, there you are – and I will be quite fine." But Ekthëlion is already positioning himself behind Turukáno, and Turukáno is just bracing himself for the first stretch when he feels Ekthëlion's hands on his hips and the dark-haired lord gently turns him about so that Turukáno is lying on his back beneath him.

"This will be easier," Ekthëlion murmurs, even as his eyes trace every part of Turukáno as if he is something valuable, worth exploring or worshipping. "And even if it were not, I should like to see you. There. Laurë? Hurry now, we're starting!"

Turukáno barely has time to register that Laurefindelë is shedding his own cream and gold and russet colors in a frantic rush beside the bed before Ekthëlion is finally finally _finally_ pushing in, with several gradual, languorous rolls of his hips that punch the breath from Turukáno's lungs.

" _There_ ," Ekthëlion breathes, finally, when he is fully sheathed within Turukáno – and then he is leaning forward, his greater height giving him the hands he needs to blanket Turukáno entirely. Turukáno's hands fly up to grip at Ekthëlion's back quite of their own volition as the dark-haired lord lavishes his king's skin with soft wet kisses and quick, darting bites – a constellation of sensations that spreads across Turukáno's skin in time with Ekthëlion's skillful thrusts into him.

Laurefindelë joins them when Ekthëlion judges that Turukáno will not be brought to completion immediately; and this way, Turukáno also _feels_ and _hears_ and _sees_ Ekthëlion's sharp intake of breath as his lover slides home within him the way he had within Turukáno. But Turukáno barely has time to marvel over how Ekthëlion's face transforms in pleasure before the momentum of Laurefindelë's thrust is sending Ekthëlion forward into Turukáno himself even harder, faster, than before, and he is the one left moaning with pleasure at the sudden change of depth and speed and pace. 

It is more than just the pleasure, though. Beneath their weight and their warmth, Turukáno knows that he is safe and treasured – something he never knew with Aikándo. It is this, if nothing else, that tells him the truth of Ekthëlion's words that he is quite different from his lookalike.

Sleepy afterward, he tells them as much, and Laurefindelë on his right laughs, pulling him closer, while Ekthëlion on his left just smiles.

"True enough, though I have also gone quite easy on you this first time," the dark-haired lord promises, a wicked amusement creeping into his voice, and despite the pleasurable hard use to which he has just been put, Turukáno can still feel himself giving a weak twitch of interest in response.

 _This time_ , Ekthëlion had said. So there will be a _next time_ as well?

The slightly overwhelming thought leaves Turukáno burrowing closer in anticipation, and Ekthëlion allows it, even pulls him closer still.


	3. with every step you take

Later, it is decided that Turukáno should confront Aikándo in the throne room of the Tower. After all, Ekthëlion argues, that room is the seat of his power, and being there when he pronounces sentence will give Turukáno an authority that he has lacked for altogether too long while dealing with this impudent guardsman.

By this point, Turukáno has been too well and blissfully fucked to argue much about anything, and so assents to this plan with a wordless sound of agreement.

But now, the next night – and the last of those seven that he was originally given to make his choice. . . Well, having a plan is one thing but hearing the scrape of the door that announces Aikándo's arrival is quite another.

The guardsman enters the throne room as if he thinks he owns it, silver ornaments in his hair jangling with a discord that Ekthëlion's never would. It is all that Turukáno can do to keep his face set as his former lover repeats his demands.

"And if I decline to give what you demand of me?" Turukáno asks. Invisible beneath his long and heavy sleeves, his fingers clench upon the arms of his throne as he faces down the man who has made his life such a misery lately. 

Aikándo sneers, repeating his threats from the sennight before: if Turukáno refuses him what he demands, than he will spread across Gondolin the story that Turukáno slept with him because he looks passing like Ekthëlion and that Turukáno called Laurefindelë's name.

"Is that all?" Turukáno asks, with a show of serenity that he doesn’t actually feel. But Aikándo doesn't seem to notice. Instead he simply narrows his eyes and says yes, perhaps this is all, but he thinks it quite enough of a damning story that it would be prudent for Turukáno to do as he says.

"I see," Turukáno says calmly. And then, in a slightly louder voice: "Well, my lords, you have now heard his tale for yourself and I am curious whether you would agree that Gondolin might enjoy it?"

Aikándo's eyes fly wide when three unexpected figures step out from the shadows of the throne room: Laurefindelë at Turukáno's right, Ekthëlion at Turukáno's left, and Duilin from the side, closer to Aikándo himself.

"I, for one, have heard enough," Duilin says briskly. Although the Lord of the Bronze Swallow has not been made privy to every part of this story - only that someone is threatening Turukáno, but not that parts of the story are true - they have been told enough about their renegade soldier that they now regard him with a look of complete disgust.

"Majesty," Duilin continues respectfully, turning just enough to bow to Turukáno as they move on. "As Head of my House I denounce this man's actions without reservation, and I will make reparations to you for the hurt and insult he has offered you. If it pleases you, I would also renounce him as a member of my guard; he will remain under the supervision of my House, but as a servant only, and he will not be allowed from the grounds again."

It is a fair speech, as Duilin is a fair lord, but the punishment is severe - far from gaining rank through Turukáno's embarrassment, the guardsman has now just lost it completely. Aikándo's eyes grow wider and wider still as he realizes how fully the tables have been turned upon him, and he looks to be half a second from throwing himself at someone's feet to plead for mercy when Ekthëlion himself steps forward from his place at Turukáno's left hand.

"And you may tell whatever story you please, wherever you please," Ekthëlion says silkily. "But keep in mind that parts of this story are slandering my own and Lord Laurefindelë's lover, and neither of us is the type to take such challenges lightly." Laurefindelë only rumbles in agreement, but then he does not truly need to say much: a step forward into the light of the throne room throws his height and his rather murderous current expression into sharp relief, and Aikándo has the presence of mind to back away from him immediately.

And that is about the end of it. With the lilting whistle unique to their House, Duilin summons three more of their guards and has Aikándo escorted away. Laurefindelë watches the little procession leave with narrowed eyes, following every step of their progress from the room with anger and suspicion.

And Ekthëlion?

The Lord of the Silver Fountain mounts the dais, and then the steps right up to the throne of Gondolin, with an easy grace. When he is standing before Turukáno, he offers a hand that Turukáno takes with a sigh, letting himself be pulled to shaking limbs and enfolded in Ekthëlion's strong embrace. The dark-haired lord holds him close and runs a sure hand through Turukáno's hair, and Turukáno relaxes into him completely, now utterly certain that Ekthëlion would stand between him and all of the Void if need be.

Or, well, whatever of the Void might be left to come for him at all with Laurefindelë standing guard before them too. 

"Well. At least that is done," Ekthëlion says quietly. But instead of making Turukáno think about all that has just happened, Ekthëlion only asks, with a hint of mischief returning to his voice: "And at least the carpet here looks thick enough that it should cushion your knees, eh?"

Turukáno can hear Laurefindelë make a sound of pleased surprise from somewhere before them, but he is too busy sinking to his knees before Ekthëlion, following the lead of a firm and gentle hand in his hair, to really look elsewhere yet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> work and chapter titles all take from The Police's "I'll Be Watching You" because if that ain't a voyeurism song idk what is


End file.
